Chapter Text
The fight is finally over, they can now live in peace. He reaches out to touch the side of her face, searching her hazel deep brown eyes for answers to lingering questions. They are quiet for a moment and
…
Anddddddd
And he’s lost it. Mike’s never been the best at endings. Some storyteller he is. The biggest criticism he ever receives is always about the ending, how its feels unfinished that there’s too many plot holes, what about this? What about that?
But Mike knows all too well that in real life not everything is tied together with a pretty bow. Things fall apart, people leave, and some tales are left untold. The party doesn’t always win so his readers should be glad that almost everything works out in the end. That it’s not his fault if there are some points up for interpretation. That’s just how life works.
Mike lets out a frustrated sigh and allows his eyes to wander slightly to the painting he received all those years ago. The one commissioned from El but still, and he would never admit this, a small part of him always sees it as Will’s painting. Kept on his wall all this time, years ago it was the first thing he looked for among the rubble and was overjoyed to find that it wasn’t damaged following the demo attack. Not like his closet they had to replace along with piles of his clothes.
Maybe it was the way Will talked about it in the van, his voice thick like honey with emotion. Mike thinks about that drive more often than he would like to. Thinks of all the things he should have said, would have said if he was a better person.
“You’re the heart.”
“El needs you Mike. And she always will.”
The truth is that he liked being told all those things through Will and honestly late at night when only the stars can hear the quiet whisper of reality begging from behind his teeth, he thinks maybe he only liked hearing them because it was Will. And maybe if he was brave after everything was over, maybe if Mike had asked Will to stay; he would have.
But that’s not real life. In real life, he loses El. Then Will and the rest of the party move away to start their lives while Mike stays in Hawkins in his childhood home. Writing stories with so-called bad endings. Trapped in the past. The past, present, and future all one blur of nothingness.
“See how you’re leading here? You’re guiding the party.” What a great leader he is. Leaders don’t fall behind. They don’t sit and watch as everyone else moves on, grows up and matures past being stupid kids. El was so considerate even when Mike was a right asshole, especially then. When Mike couldn’t say he loved her, so stupid, she went out of her way to make sure he heard her feelings. Explained their connection through D&D terms so she knew he heard her. The one thing he doesn’t understand is why she never mentioned it.
Maybe he missed something in a letter but as hard as he tries he cant remember so much as a hint towards anything. Well, its clear that the novel he’s painstakingly writing is going nowhere today, so he might as well reread the stack of letters kept under his bed. The ones from El. Not… well not the other ones.
It’s a while before he finds it. The only time any painting is mentioned; “Will has been painting a lot.” Mike can’t stop his imagination from booting up. A younger Will Byers standing alone in his room, a small crease between his eyebrows from concentration lit by the golden light beaming through a bedroom window. Paint-stained hands, causing a mark of blue to be left at the corner of his lips from absentmindedly biting his nails. Mike imagines himself wiping away this spot and..
And he keeps reading. “but he wont show me what he’s working on. Maybe it is for a girl.” Oh. “I think there is someone he likes, because he has been acting weird.” Oh.
But that couldn’t- That doesn’t make sense. Why would Will give him a painting that El knew nothing about and say all that just for.. well for what really? It doesn’t make sense. Why would he lie? They’re meant to be friends. Best friends. It doesn't make sense.
Mike needs to know.
He sprints down both sets of stairs to the basement. (“Michael! How many times! Don’t run inside!”) Mike almost tears the phone clean off the wall in his rush, before punching in the number for Will’s dorm room at the New York Academy of Art. As the line rings, the initial adrenaline deflates leaving behind an empty pit in his stomach. What will he say? What can he say? He really should have planned better instead of jumping right into action because what if-
The ringing stops.
“Hello?”